0 comments/ 9986 views/ 0 favorites Connecting By: sparkles She was sitting at her computer waiting impatiently for him to appear online. She’d seen him less than an hour ago but she was still eager to talk to him again. He’d said he’d be online at eleven o’clock but at nearly eleven fifteen she was still waiting. She sat there thinking about conversations they’d had in the past, a smile on her lips as she pondered over the great talks they’d had, not to mention the times their conversations had turned into something more. Her eyes slowly closed as her mind drifted thinking of the conversation of the night before, she replayed the scene in her head, it seemed so real that she could even feel his hands resting on her shoulders before slowly moving down to cup her breasts. A few kisses along her neck and near her ear convinced her that she was no longer daydreaming; he had got into the house without her hearing. “The computer wouldn’t connect,” he whispered softly in her ear, “so I thought we could instead.” A small sigh escaped her lips, as she slowly turned round to face him not quite believing that he was really here. As their lips met in a passionate kiss the reality of the situation hit her. He was here and his wandering hands showed her that he wanted more than just intelligent conversation. His left hand, still cupping her breast through the thin fabric of her silk nightdress, started playing with her nipple making her more aroused than she was already. His right hand moved slowly downwards until he reached bare skin at the top of her thigh. His hand rested there a moment before lust overtook him and he slid it upwards again, this time moving under the garment. Finding that she wore no underwear fuelled his excitement. Moving his left hand round to her back he gently pulled her upwards so she was standing, giving him easier access. The thin straps of her nightdress slipped off her shoulders as they relaxed in pleasure, just a small nudge from him caused the straps to fall further leaving her breasts fully exposed to him. He broke the kiss for the first time and leaned down to lightly suck on first her right nipple then her left. Her head rolled back in ecstasy and a moan left her lips, this one louder than the first. His right hand soon found its way to where it wanted to be. She moved her legs apart slightly as she felt him get near. His fingers found their way to her throbbing clit, waiting for his touch. He started to stroke her clit gently yet firmly, slowly at first but building up tempo as he felt her get more excited. As he continued pleasuring her she slipped her hands round to the clasp on his jeans quickly undoing it and pushing his jeans down towards the ground. The t-shirt he was wearing was soon disregarded along with the jeans leaving him standing there in a pair of simple black shorts. She reached down and her hand came in contact with his large erect penis. She gently pulled it free from the covering shorts and started stroking it gently with the same rhythm that he was touching her. She felt him slip two fingers into her, gently probing into her wetness. She released her grip on his firm member as he brought her to the brink of her first orgasm of the night. She cried out in passion as the waves of pleasure ran through her body. As the pleasure started to subside, he removed his hand and used it to grip the hem of her nightdress pulling it up and over her head leaving her naked in front of him. He quickly removed his shorts as they moved over to the nearby bed. He pushed her gently down until she was sitting on the edge of the bed; he moved to sit with her but before he could get there she took his penis in her hands again, this time bringing it to her lips. She slowly licked the underside making him quiver before moving to the head that was glistening with precum. She slowly licked him clean before taking the first inch or so into her mouth, she gently sucked on him as she put more and more of it into her mouth until it was as far as it could go. As she sucked she could hear him moaning above her, suddenly he clutched the back of her head and she could feel him tense up. She continued her work on his penis until she felt the hot salty liquid of his cum enter her mouth; she eagerly swallowed until she had taken all he had to offer. She licked him clean once more before removing her mouth from his now limp penis, and pulling him down onto the bed. She lay back as he kissed his way down her body, spending time attending to her breasts before kissing down her stomach to her most private place. Her legs moved apart as he got closer, aching for his touch. Her back arched as the first touch of his tongue on her clit gave her a jolt of pleasure; he quickly flicked his tongue back and forth making her scream his name. He moved down further to give her more pleasure and, as his tongue entered where his fingers had been moments before, she came once again. He licked at her juices, his tongue probing further into her as she quickly reached the height of her pleasure for the third time. Her body was screaming out for him and the return of his huge erection showed her that he desperately wanted to have her too. He kissed his way back up her body until he reached her mouth. They kissed passionately once more and they could taste each other’s juices in their lover’s mouths. He moved so that his penis was just above her and started to sink his member into her warm hole. He settled into her as she rose up to meet him, making sure that he was in all way. He started thrusting gently into her getting into a rhythm then thrusting harder and harder making her cry out loudly. She wrapped her legs around his waist making him fit tighter. They moved together faster and faster until a wall of pleasure seemed to build around them. She could feel his large penis filling her up and pounding against her magic spot making her scream his name in intense pleasure. Their passion built up higher and higher until reaching a peak they came together, merging into one as their juices flowed. He collapsed onto her exhausted then rolled off her gently. “That was better than I ever imagined,” she whispered quietly to him as they drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms. Connecting Note: This story contains fm and mm sexual encounters. I am but mad north-northwest. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw. Hamlet, Act II, Scene ii. Donald Clarke sat behind the wheel of his car and stared at his house. The car engine idled fitfully, coughed and died. The evening chorus was holding forth from the elms lining the street. He suspected his children wouldn't have bothered waiting for him before eating the dinner left by their housekeeper. Don heaved a sigh and pulled the keys from the ignition. Life had changed since his wife had left, not least that family dinners were now limited to birthdays and Christmas. Hauling himself out of the car, he snagged his briefcase from the backseat and began trudging up the path. Stop acting like you're on death row, heading for the chair, he told himself, these are your kids, your flesh and blood, your only family now. But no number of motivational pep talks could fool the habitually clear-sighted man. His children had become strangers to him. They barely spoke to each other and never did anything together. It was time for Don to face the truth. His ex-wife had raised the children as Don had worked long hours, building his practice as a civil architect. And he had turned around one day and instead of seeing two pink cheeked kids, there were two young adults staring coolly back at him. Sitting at the kitchen table, he ate the cold steak pie left out for him, not really tasting it and washing it down with a beer. Tossing his fork onto the empty plate, Don contemplated his empty bottle. Fuck it, he deserved another. Savouring the bitey pilsner and the warmth it was slowly lighting in his belly, he walked into the lounge. "Hi Dad," his eldest child said, not looking up from the laptop balanced on her knees. On the muted TV a plastic-faced newsreader was nodding vigorously. A glass of red wine sat within reach on a side table. Emily was twenty and in her third year of college. Almost preternatally self-possessed as a child, she had grown into a graceful and confident young woman. Thomas had heard through parents of other students that she was heavily involved in college politics. "Hello. Have a good day?" "Fine, thanks." Looking at her profile lit by the computer's glow, Don considered the absurd impression he was somehow intruding. Lately, he had begun to feel not like his children's father, but rather, their uncool housemate. He should be in his room, playing online war games, wearing hobbit feet and masturbating over a bootleg copy of Sperminator 3 - The Cumming, he thought. He forced himself to sit beside Emily on the couch, instead. She moved over, unfolding long, slim legs to cross them beneath herself. "Is your brother in?" "Uhuh, in his room, I think." Picking up the remote control, he gestured at the TV. "Are you -?" "No, go ahead." Flicking through the channels, Don found some European soccer and took another pull of his beer. Emily continued to tap at the keyboard, taking occasional sips of wine. "School ok?" She didn't bother answering, merely quirking her lips. Soft and plush, they were slightly wine-stained and swollen from being bitten as Emily concentrated on her work. Turning back to the TV slowly, he stared down at the remote in confusion for a second. Coming back to himself abruptly, he started to channel surf and paused when he caught a glimpse of a waggling moustache. It was a Marx brothers movie but which - "Monkey Business!" Emily exclaimed, delight lighting her face. He had nearly forgotten her love of the cheeky comedians. For her eighth birthday they had taken her to a marathon of their movies at an old Cineplex in town - she had been so excited that she couldn't sleep the night before and could barely stay awake in the cinema. "Want to watch it?" Emily shrugged but couldn't stop herself giggling at a particularly hard pratfall. Don grinned and settled back to watch the movie. The movie's credit's were starting to roll when his son walked in. Luke had just turned eighteen, and was enrolled at the same college as his sister. Judging from the amount of kit regularly left strewn about the house, he was continuing the active sporting career begun in high school. Grunting in response to Don's hello, Luke addressed his sister. "You going to Ethan's party tonight?" She shook her head and resumed typing, leaving Luke to grimace and turn away. Surprising himself, Don spoke. "Why, do you need a lift?" Is this what it's come to? he thought, so desperate for contact with your kids that you volunteer to be their chauffeur? Luke shrugged and shook the hair out of his eyes. "Yeah, I guess, if you want." He folded his arms across his chest. Thomas noted that although Luke was not yet as broad as himself, all that rowing and track had laid a lean layer of muscle on his youthful frame. "I'm gonna get my license, you know," Luke muttered. Knowing that the best way to soothe a defensive teenager was simply to agree with whatever they said, Thomas nodded and went to fetch his keys. Inside the car, sliding through the suburb's backstreets, father and son sat in silence. Don racked his brain for something to say. "How are your classes?" "Alright." Pulling up at a stop sign, Don leaned forward to peer past Luke, checking for oncoming traffic. "You're ok on this side," Luke told him. "Playing this weekend?" "Yeah." Out of the corner of his eye, Don saw Luke glance over before turning back to the window. "Why, do you wanna come? 'Cause you don't have to, none of the other dads will." Swallowing the pleased "Sure" that had been on the tip of his tongue, Don ignored his disappointment and turned on the radio. "Like a bat outta hell, I'll be gone when the morning comes…" Whooping, Don cranked up the volume, grinning at Luke's groan. "Dad, come on, Meatloaf? He's so lame," Luke complained. "Hey, no dissing the 'Loaf, he's a legend, none of that gangsta stuff, 20 Cents or Ridiculous or whatever, yo yo, wassup." Rolling his eyes, Luke snorted but he was trying not to smile. As the rock song built to its climax, Luke began to nod along to the heavy guitar riffs and by the time Meatloaf and Don were screaming out the final lines, he was screaming along with them. "Then like a sinner before the gates of heaven, I'll come crawling on back to you!" Dropping their voices, they crooned the repeat and listened appreciatively to the motorbike revs closing out the tune. "That's not a motorbike you know, they did it on a guitar 'cause the producer didn't want to let a bike in the studio," Luke said suddenly. Don stared at him in amazement before returning his eyes to the road. "I didn't know that." He couldn't remember the last time his son had said something to him that wasn't in answer to a question. "Yeah, well." Fidgeting in his seat, Luke's face settled into its usual expression of sullen disdain. A couple of minutes later, they began to pass teenagers on the sidewalk, grouped in ones and twos. They seemed to be drifting in the same direction and Don thought they were probably headed to the party. "Let me out here." Luke added a grudging "please" when Don raised unimpressed eyebrows. He flicked the radio off as he pulled the car into the kerb. "How are you planning to get home?" he asked Luke's back as it exited the car. It shrugged. "I'll get a ride, whatever." Shutting the door, he walked around the front of the car to cross the road. The car's headlights threw the bones of Luke's cheeks into sharp relief under the shadow of his shaggy fringe and Don realised that he was staring at a young version of his own father, even down to the bump on the bridge of Luke's nose. Humming the Meatloaf tune absently, his eyes traced the lines of his son's body, limned in summer evening air made phosphorescent. Glazed eyes slipped over strong forearms, revealed by roughly rolled up sleeves, and lingered on slim hips encased in snug denim. A passing car honked and Don started. Seeing Luke lope across the road and head towards a pair of smiling girls in very short skirts, he cracked open the window and called after him. "Hey! Don't get too drunk tonight, I'll take you out tomorrow to practice your driving." Luke spun around and frowned, before shrugging and making a flip A-ok gesture. Turning back to the girls, he said something that made one laugh and the other roll her eyes. Trying to remember the last time he'd met one of his son's girlfriends, Don started for home. Rolling the window the rest of the way down, he steered with a nonchalant hand. The night wind whipped at his hair, carrying whiffs of exhaust and cut grass. Rolled out pulses of yellow light from the streetlights flooded the car's cabin, an irregular heartbeat rising from the road and tossing his world from day to night. Don thought about the next day's driving lesson and hummed to himself. Luke had inherited his mother's temper so Don would have to be careful if he wanted to avoid the lesson ending in a shouting match . Happily, Luke was a fast learner but there was no sense in making it anymore difficult than it needed to be. There was a deserted industrial park just north of town, they could practice the basics there without having to worry about other cars. It was exactly where his own Mom had taken him to practice his own driving, although the park had not been deserted then. Don would borrow his father's old pick-up truck - another dent or three wouldn't faze his Dad. As the logistics of the lesson worked themselves out in his head, Don's right hand crept from his thigh until it rested softly on the bulge between his legs. His hand squeezed and a muscle beneath his right eye jerked. Harder, it squeezed again. Rolling and pressing, the heel of his hand worked the thickening length. Grunts began to jerk at the melody riding his breath.. Another turn and the haze in his head was fleeing before the familiar sight of his front yard. Climbing out of the car, he sent his crotch a surprised glance. What the…? Jesus, where had that come from, he wondered, reaching down to rearrange the erection tenting his pants. Judging by the dampness he could feel and the tightness of his balls, he was close to coming too. Must have been the sight of those sweet young things with Luke, he thought. Chuckling over his sudden graduation to dirty ol' perv, he tossed the car keys onto the hall. He bent to pull off his boots, grimacing at the shot of pain as his rigid cock went one way and his balls the other. Inside the kitchen, Emily was bent over, rooting in the fridge. The red shorts she was wearing rode high on her thighs and hugged her firm butt. Standing in the doorway, Don scrubbed a faintly trembling hand over his mouth as he stared at his daughter's ass. Sweet and perfectly curved, it was an upside down heart-shaped exclamation mark to the long moan of her thighs. The muscle in his cheek jumped and a weird chuff rumbled from his throat. "Jesus, Dad!" Emily whirled to face her father, clutching a carton of juice in startlement. Don watched juice spurt from the open spout as if in slow motion, to splash against her neck and chest, before the carton slipped from her fingers and hit the flagstone floor. "Eww," she winced, dancing out of the way of the spreading juice and shaking orange droplets from her fingertips. Apologising profusely, he passed over a dishcloth and went hunting for a mop. Returning empty-handed a couple of minutes later, he found Emily on her hands and knees, wiping up the spilled juice with paper towels. She pulled back to kneel in front of him, holding up the used towels. "Get me a couple more, please?" she asked. Nodding, Don squeezed by where she knelt, dropping a careless hand to muss her hair. Humming, he ripped a handful of squares from the roll. Turning back around, he found her at his feet, staring up at him with glassy eyes. "Here you go." She made no move to take the towels from his outstretched hand. Instead, she braced herself on her arms and leant back, splaying her knees wide. "I'm sorry for spilling the juice, Daddy," she murmured. Toneless. Tucking her feet underneath herself, she settled onto a heel. Don watched as his daughter posed like a ten dollar whore, eager for her pimp boyfriend's cock. As if weighted, his eyes drifted to her crotch. Emily's heel was jammed into the slit between her legs, yanking the cotton-blend fabric tight over her pussy. The material separated the plump lips of her cunt, squeezing them lewdly forward. A tiny shake of her hips pulled the shorts further away. A sliver of pearly smooth pussy peeped up at the silent man. The paper towels floated to the floor as Don's fist relaxed and smoothly, Emily's hand came up to clasp his forearm. Reflexively, he gripped hers, her flesh silky and warm under his palm. Emily's eyes were huge and glazed, staring sightlessly at the cupboard . Shifting his weight, Don pulled her up a couple of inches, then dropped her. She grunted as her body pushed her pussy back down onto her heel. Head lolling to the side, she tilted her hips to mash her clit against her shin. Again, he lifted her and dropped her. Faster and faster, her grunts becoming broken pants then soft yips, Don masturbated his daughter as she squatted on the kitchen floor. "It's ok, Emmy," he answered, his eyes vacant. Reaching down, he slipped his other hand into her juice-stained top, squeezing the firm young tit he found. He massaged his palm over and over its pebbled nipple, before tugging the engorged berry between his fingers. Emily squealed, her body nearly unbalancing as Don mauled her breast. "I hope it won't stain the grouting," Don said. A tiny bubble of spit collected in the corner of his lips. He groped at her other tit, fondling and rubbing around her swollen nipple before grasping it between his finger and thumb and pinching. "Daddy, I'm sorry! Daddy!" Emily cried. Throwing her head back, her entire body convulsed as she came, shuddering, working her sopping cunt against her cream-slick heel. Demented eyes glistening, Don raked his finger nails over the hard nipple, drawing a scream from his daughter. She ground her breast against her father's hand, hanging from his grip and rode the waves of her orgasm. Releasing Emily's breast and hand, he slid his hands into her hair and stroked her absently, tucking a loose curl behind an ear. As if the strings holding her up had been cut by his caress, Emily moaned and pitched forward to crash into Don's legs, her forehead slamming into his left thigh. Rebounding too fast for Don to catch her, she sprawled onto the floor and narrowly avoiding smacking her head against a table leg. Rolling onto her side, the shaking girl lay there, her mauled breasts heaving. Her thighs twitched as cream oozed from the sodden wad of shorts and panty fabric crammed up into her pussy. Their harsh panted breaths sawed at the kitchen's quiet air. The light in the kitchen seemed to dim and flare. Emily stirred. Don blinked and looked down at her. "Whoa, Emmy, you alright?" "Yeah, I'm ok, just slipped on the juice I think." Emily carefully got to her feet and looked down at herself in disgust and smiling. "Yeuch, I've got it all over me now." "Yeah, this floor is slippery when it's wet. Go have a shower, I'll finish cleaning up." Emily bent down and grabbed up a crumpled pile of paper towel from the floor and handed it to him. "OK, thanks." She walked out stiffly, rubbing at the red mark on her forehead. Frowning, Don thought back - had she hit her head on the table? He'd ask her about it later. Squatting, Don began to mop up the rest of the spilled juice, grimacing as he did so. There it was again, the spontaneous hard-on, smearing pre-cum down his leg and dragging at the skin of his belly. Since when had mopping up spilled juice become a turn on? Never mind, it was nearly 11pm anyway; a quic in the shower and an early night meant he could get up first thing and go for a run. He might even stop into that little bakery on the other side of the park for some pastries for the kids' breakfast. Looking forward to the weekend in a way he hadn't for years, Don tossed the crumpled paper in the trash and headed for the shower. Chapter Two "OK, check your mirrors… indicator…" Luke grunted, his forehead creased in concentration as he eased the truck into a u-turn. "A little more gas, more gas-" Don suppressed a groan as the engine coughed and stalled for the seventh time that day. "Fuck!" Luke swore again, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. Dan sat silent. Should he be encouraging him to keep trying? Telling him to calm down or ignoring it? Deciding discretion really was the better part of valour, he folded his arms and examined the derelict warehouses surrounding them. The industrial park had been built in the early 1960's, a testament to the town's booming post-war years and an eventual victim of the 80's crash and burn. Now the factories and warehouses were crumbling, once tidy grass verges turning into crackly jungles of weeds and trash, broken windows catching the eye like a splinter underfoot. It was as deserted as he had expected. The community housing built adjacent to the park to house its workers had been torn down a few years ago and the park was too far out of town to tempt the homeless into using the buildings themselves for shelter. Now, the midday sun baked cracked sidewalks that hadn't felt footfall in years. A stray dog barked in the distance, the sound melting into the thin air so quickly, it was hard to know whether the sound had been heard or imagined. After a minute, Luke still hadn't restarted the car. Before he knew he was going to, Don reached over and gave Luke's shoulder a rough shake. "You're doing fine, buddy." "Yeah, right," came the annoyed reply. "Lookit, it's all about being able to hear, or feel, when the engine needs more power. Try it again." Don released Luke's shoulder, undid his seatbelt and scooted over to lay his hand on his son's knee. "I'll squeeze when you need to give it more, ok?" Luke stared down at his dad's hand, his expression blank. Feeling suddenly awkward, Don pulled back, only to have his wrist caught in strong fingers. "Ok." "Ok," Don affirmed. The warmth of the teenager's leg seemed to burn through the denim of his jeans, searing Don's palm. It seeped up his arm and the back of his neck, glazing his brain in a honeyed heat. Flicking his tongue out to moisten dry lips, he nodded at the keys. "Start her up and I'll show you what I mean." Moving slowly, Luke reached forward and started the old truck. "Now, bring your foot off the clutch, slowly… keep going… slowly… there!" Don squeezed his son's leg as the engine's grumble changed pitch, signalling the clutch's bite-point. Luke rammed his foot onto the gas pedal but it was too late to stop the truck stalling. "Fuck!" Seeing Luke struggle with his frustration, Don frowned in sympathy, rubbing his hand over the teenager's thigh soothingly . Dropping his chin to his chest, Luke watched his father's hand through half-lidded eyes. "Try again. C'mon, you can do this." Shifting in his seat, Luke sat still for a few seconds before he wrenched the keys around to cough the old truck into life. This time, Don couldn't even squeeze a warning before the engine stalled. Luke's face was wooden, his eyes focused on the road outside. "Fuck. I'll never learn how to do it. Fuck." Lean muscle clenched beneath Don's hand and he began to rub once more. "Don't be mad, buddy." "I'm really pissed, Dad. Fuck. Fuck." Luke said. Scooting forward on the leather seat, he widened his thighs. His cock was a thick bulge down his right leg, a bare inch from Don's fingers. Connecting Muttering incoherent words of comfort under his breath, Don rubbed harder, brushing his finger tips up and down the cocks hot length. With a breathy unh, Luke tilted his hips to place his crotch directly under his father's kneading palm. Gazing over Don's shoulder, he swallowed, rolling his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Don watched an empty potato chip packet dance on the sidewalk as his hand deftly unzipped his teenage son's fly. A twisting tug freed seven throbbing inches of boy cock, purple with blood and curving gently to the left just like Don's own. Luke gasped, then moaned when Don hefted his sack, rolling his nuts gently. "Don't be mad, buddy," he repeated, wrapping his fingers around the thick meat, lined with a snaking vein and so hot in Don's hand. Jerking slowly at first, he gradually built up speed until he was pumping furiously. Viscous pre-cum oozed from the boy's swollen cockhead, coating his whipping palm. The trucks cab filled with its distinctive tang, it mingling with their sweat. Don snorted, sucking in the primeval stench of aroused males. "Fuck. Daddy fuck. Daddy fuck Daddy fuck." Luke's groans and pants got louder as his hips began to buck. Knuckles white, fingers gouging deep into the pick-up's stained leather, he humped desperately into his father's fist, all but crying with pleasure. "I know, buddy, Daddy knows." Not slowing his motions, he bent at the waist till his staring face was bare inches from Luke's thrusting groin. Closing dazed eyes, Don let his tongue loll from between his dry lips. With a roar, Luke slammed his cockhead into his fathers tongue and came, shot after shot of hot cum slapping themselves onto Don's waiting tongue. "Daddy! Fuuuck." Half swallowing the cum, half smearing it over his lips in his eagerness, Don milked Luke's cock for more, pulling from the very base and snapping his wrist in a vicious little twist just under his son's foreskin. "Come on, buddy, you can do this." Don's voice was coaxing and toneless, loving and utterly lost. "Please Daddy, please, please, uunh…" Luke's eyes went wide and his back bowed. His scream pierced the air and Don shuddered to again feel cum rip its way up the tightly gripped cock before it was painting his tongue and lips. When the last droplet oozed forward to tremble in the soft cup of Luke's foreskin, Don flicked out his tongue to claim it. Then sat up, tucked his son's cock back into his jeans and returned to his side of the cab. It was quiet in the old industrial park; Don had forgotten how quiet it could be. Hot too, not a breath of wind, he thought to himself, as he rolled down the window. And no such thing as AC when this old truck rolled off the production line. God, he was sweating like a pig, he thought, catching a whiff of pungent male body odour. He licked his lips, enjoying the thick tang of salt he found there. Turning to Luke who was staring out his own window, Don slapped him on the back. "Right buddy, ready to try again yet?" Luke met Don's eyes and blinked, shook his head and blinked again. His lean cheeks were flushed and sweaty strands of hair had plastered themselves to his temples and the nape of his neck. "Yeah," he said, his voice hoarse. He stopped to clear his throat and returned Don's smile hesitantly. "Yeah, I dunno, I feel a bit better now, I think I can do it." "Glad to hear it, thought you were going to hulk out on me there for a second," Don joked. Luke snorted and turning the key in the ignition, fired up the truck and started the U-turn again. Don realised he wasn't wearing his seatbelt - funny, he didn't remember taking it off - and buckled himself in. The urge to whistle rose and he didn't fight it. Somehow, life seemed to be looking up. Connecting "Only connect...only connect the prose and the passion."-E. M. Forster * "That's just the trouble," Zetta said, "people don't really connect." "What do you mean, connect?" John asked. They were stretched out side by side on the big divan as John complained about his love woes. Zetta paused for a moment, thinking, and then said, "So many of our relationships are superficial. We pretend to be interested in others we even say we love them, but it's all on the surface, it's all about getting something for ourselves." "You mean like Josie and me?" John said. "Well yes, you've just been telling me how you feel about her, how when you've had sex with her you just want to get up and walk away." "But she loses interest as well as soon as she's had her orgasm," John said defensively. "That's just my point, darling, you're not connected. I suppose you can say it's the difference between love and lust; when you love someone you want to give to them, but when you lust for someone you just want to take from them." Zetta sighed and went on, "It's like that with sex, if you love then after you've both had your orgasm you don't want to separate, you want to be together and soon after you're ready for more. Sometimes you might not feel like sex, but because the other person wants it you give it to them because you love them. It's different with lust, as you should know. You say that when you've ejaculated into Josie you want to leave, you even said you feel disgust and..." "But I do, feel disgust and if you want the full truth I think to myself, 'You dirty cow Josie, letting me do that to you.'" "That just shows you," Zetta responded, "you're simply not connected. I've never said anything to you before about it, but that was the problem with your father and me. When we married we weren't really in love. Oh we thought we were but I suppose you could say that we were in lust, and that doesn't last. We got to the point where we still had our sexual needs and tried to meet those needs with each other, but all the time disgust and revulsion kept growing. "But that's horrible," John said. "No more horrible than you and Josie," Zetta retorted. "Every time your father and I fucked it started out okay, it was afterwards that we both wanted to see the back of each other, and in fact that literally happened, we'd turn our backs on each other. Just suppose you married Josie, can you imagine what it would be like?" John gave a shudder and said, "It would be a mini-hell." "In the end you're father and I simply had to talk it out. It was sad really because he was so potent and I'm very libidinous and we could always have sex, but it wasn't enough and we both had the courage to admit it. You see my love, your father and I were simply not connected." "So that's why you and dad split up," John said thoughtfully, "you've never said anything about that before." "And I wouldn't say anything to anyone else," Zetta said decisively; "that information is for your ears only." She gave a gentle little laugh and said, "I suppose that shows that we are connected my darling." John seemed to digest this for a few moments and then said, "Do you mean that we really are connected?" "Of course," Zetta said confidently. "There's nearly always a special connection between a mother and her son, don't you feel that?" "Yes...yes I do," John said slowly, his face flushing slightly, "but it's different isn't it; I mean, me and Josie, you and dad, and what you said about being connected in that way?" "Is it?" Zetta asked. "When you feel yourself connected to someone, or shall we say you're really in love with that person, sex is only just below the surface, isn't it?" "I suppose..." John said reluctantly, as if unwilling to admit his sexual feelings for his mother. "You suppose? Perhaps we aren't connected John, or at least you don't feel connected to me, because when you are connected you want to be completely honest with the other person." "But I thought that sort of love couldn't happen between...between..." "Mother and son?" Zetta queried, a smile flitting across her lips. "Yes." "Of course it does darling, just look at all the times it appears in the media, you know, when it comes out that a mother and her son are lovers. The media love it, it makes good copy and people gobble it. I feel sorry for the poor couple that have been caught and exposed, but I suppose you can say they should have been more careful." "You don't think that incest is so terrible?" "Not when it's borne of love, or, to use my word, they're really connected." "You said we're connected," John pointed out. "Of course we are darling, and I also said that sex was always just below the surface, and that's true, isn't it?" "I...I..." John stammered, but Zetta interrupted, "I'll prove it to you. You like honey don't you?" "Yes, but what's honey got to do with being connected?" John replied, puzzled. "I'll show you; go to the kitchen and in the bottom right hand cupboard you'll find a jar of honey, bring it here." John rose and still mystified went to the kitchen, found the honey and brought it back to Zetta.'' She took the jar from him and lay back on the divan, her head resting on a cushion. "Now open the front of my dress," she ordered. "Open the front of your...?" "Just do it John if you want to know what being connected means, nothing is going to jump out and bite you." John still hesitated for a moment and Zetta said impatiently, "Are you going to undo them or do I have to do it myself?" Surrendering his doubts John obediently undid the buttons, gradually revealing ripe pink tipped braless breasts. "Mum," he gasped, "they're beautiful." "Pity your father didn't think so," Zetta said acerbically, and she took the lid off the honey jar and with great deliberation dipped her finger into the honey and then smeared it round one of her nipples, then doing to same with her other nipple, as John watched, fascinated. "Lick it off," Zetta commanded. "You want me to..." "Don't make me have to always ask twice," Zetta said, "just lick the honey off my nipples, and when you've finished you can give me a kiss." John leaned over her and commenced licking and sucking. The taste of the honey mingled with that particular flavour women's nipples seem to have added to the excitement that had begun with their conversation about being connected. He licked and sucked avidly until no honey remained. "Kiss me," Zetta said. John pressed his lips to hers and the residual honey in and around John's mouth seemed to glue them together, and then their tongues were licking the sweetness. It was like no other kiss John had ever experienced with his mother, or with anyone for that matter, and it lingered long. When they had finished licking the honey and each other Zetta said, "Take my panties off, but seeing John hesitating once more she said, "Oh never mind, I'll do it." She wriggled out of her panties and this time dipping several fingers into the honey she smeared it liberally over her genitals and into her vagina. Moving to sit on the edge of the bed she opened her legs wide and said, "Kneel and lick it off," she said. This time John didn't hesitate, he knelt between her legs and commenced licking. He worked his way from the outside in as Zetta seemed to give way to the sensations he was causing. By he time he got to her clitoris she had her legs over his shoulders and her hands behind his head holding him tightly to her as she whimpered and sobbed. "Ah God, God, don't stop...oh...ohwaa...more, more...don't stop...ooooh Goaaaah..." After a series of violent jerks over John's face, now covered with a mixture of Zetta's love juice and honey she released him and said breathlessly, "That's being connected, your turn, undress and lay on the divan." Because of his unsteady hands it took John a while to get undressed but he finally lay naked on the divan. Zetta again dipped her fingers into the honey and then smeared it over John's penis, and taking it into her mouth began the process of removing the honey. This was too much for John. Close to coming even before Zetta started to lick he cried out, "I'm coming...I'm coming..." Zetta ignored the warning and continued to lick and suck. John put his hands behind her head, held her to him, and shot his sperm into her mouth. Zetta, unable to swallow all his semen, rose wearing a smile and honeyed cum clinging to her mouth. She kissed him again until the mixture had been removed, and then asked, "Do you feel disgusted?" "No...no..."John said, "I feel..." "Ready for more?" Zetta interrupted.. "Yes...yes I do," John replied. "Then we're connected," Zetta said decisively. "Ah...er...yes...yes we are," John replied with equal resolve. "No going back once you know you're connected," Zetta said, "so fuck me." "No honey?" John queried. "Not this time," Zetta said as she spread her legs, "We're connected so it'll be sweet enough without."